


stop for a minute (and be by my side)

by rosehale



Category: British Actor RPF, Spider-Man RPF, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Spider-Man: Homecoming RPF, tom holland - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehale/pseuds/rosehale
Summary: Tom comes home from the press tour. His girlfriend is waiting for him."There is a promise in the air, a reminder that there is another person here, living and breathing and waiting for her."





	stop for a minute (and be by my side)

**Author's Note:**

> hello all!! of course i saw spiderman homecoming and came home and read all available fanfic and then wrote some of my own. 
> 
> as always, i don't own anything, tom belongs to himself, i know nothing about him. this is merely my imagination. 
> 
> much love x
> 
> (title comes from james bay's 'hold back the river')

He’s been gone too long.

The press tour took two, nearly three weeks, but it was too long. She still wakes reaching out in the bed, searching for a warm body and finding nothing. The apartment is quiet, and still, without him to fill it, doing stupid, unnecessary flips off pieces of furniture and humming to himself as he makes dinner and cooing at Tessa. There are phone calls, of course, and SnapChats, and blurry Skype talks, but he’s busy, and she’s busy, and the time difference is crazy. She changes the sheets one day, and realises only afterwards that the new linen smells only of her, none of Tom’s cologne or shower gel to remind her that she’s not alone, even in sleep. The weather is bad, seemingly mourning his disappearance. It’s been weeks, and it’s been too long.

His flight changes, and she has a work thing, so she comes home late to a quiet flat, the lights off. But where, in the past few weeks, the apartment had lacked warmth, had felt empty and bare, there is a promise in the air, a reminder that there is another person here, living and breathing and waiting for her. In the bedroom, there is a shape under the covers, taking up the side of the bed that had been cold and sparse when she left that morning. She can hear Tom’s quiet breathing, the presence of him, real and _there_. She undresses quickly, eager to touch his skin, to take his warmth without clothing in the way. He’s warmed the cold sheets, the portable heater he is, and she slips in, sticking to her side of the bed for a moment to just _witness_ him.

He is fast asleep, exhausted from travel, but he’s at peace. His face is clear, his eyelashes resting gently on his cheeks. The gold of the thin chain of his necklace glints in the low light of the room, the strength of his shoulders a contrast against the soft bed linen. His arm reaches out across the bed, bracelets gathered at his wrist from the places he’s been, faded from showers and planes, as if he knew she would be returning, and he wanted to touch her first. His fingers steeple on the white of the duvet, waiting for her.

She takes Tom’s hand, feels it move with her, curl into her, fingers linking. He makes a soft sound in his chest, and stirs, opening up his body for her to press against. He smells like an airplane, but underneath there is the soothing sense of his aftershave, of his soap, of something that she’s only ever been able to link to him. She lets him wake up slowly, indulges herself in touching him, his bare chest, up the side of his ribcage, just softly enough to tickle him, so his mouth crooks into a grin.

  “Stop,” he mumbles, thick with sleep, but it’s teasing, and he pulls her in closer.

  She lets her hand travel to his back, feels the movement in the cords of muscle as he shapes his body to hers, slipping a knee between her thighs, gathering her up close to him. He’s scooped her up, tucked her in, until there’s barely any of her skin left that isn’t touching his. She watches his eyelids flicker, promises of brown eyes, until he’s there, awake, conscious, and smiling at her, watching her from his place on the pillow. His face is soft with sleep, his blinking lazy, his movements lazier.

  “Hello,” she says, a whisper, too much to say and settling for too little. He understands though, because he shifts close enough that she can’t keep him in focus. A brush of his nose against hers, a whisper of breath, and then he’s kissing her, good and proper. It’s clumsy, this close, and sleepy, but it’s warm and familiar. They’ve long figured out how they fit together. It’s good. It’s so good. To taste him, to feel him, to have his body react to hers. Tom makes soft sounds into her mouth, moans from his chest as his body presses closer, limbs twining under the sheets. Her name is like a prayer in his mouth as his hands find the band of her underwear, struggling to push it down her legs.

  “Please,” he says against her jaw where he leaves sloppy kisses, distracted by the warmth of her body, the rejoicing of having it against him again.

  “I know,” she whispers, their hands meeting and fumbling under the covers as she rids herself of her underwear, kicking it down to the bottom of the bed, “I know.”

  She’s heady with having her boy back, feeling him, knowing him again. His hips rock against her, the slide of skin making her shiver. Tom’s voice is muffled against her collarbone as he laves his tongue over her shoulder.

  “Missed you,” he mumbles, “Missed this.”

  She tangles a hand in his hair, feels the cool of the pillow under her cheek as she tilts her head back for him to kiss over the arch of her neck, feel her stuttering pulse under his lips. He knows her inside out, what she likes, what she’ll react to, and his hand slips down her belly all too easily. He kisses her again as his fingers curl inside her, thumb rubbing against her knot of nerves to make her breath stick in her chest. It’s a luxury to be able to touch him, to feel him, and she appeases herself, her hands moving over his body, never settling in one place for long.

Their bodies shift and arch and writhe. It’s more than just feeling him, it’s hearing him, it’s seeing him, it’s smelling him, it’s tasting him, all at once, after so long denied. His voice in her ear as she tucks her face into the crook of his neck, talking nonsense that makes it hard to think clearly.

  “I love you, I missed you, there you go, darling, there you go,” his voice is thick, and rough, and she comes looking up at him, her body wrapped in his, a safe, warm place to completely come apart.

  She pants for a moment, his fingers still stroking her, careful to her sensitivity. Tom waits for her, like he always does, like the kind soul he is. He keeps her alight with purposeful touches. A brush over her breasts, a lazy kiss over her nipple, a glide of a hand over her stomach.

  She reaches down when she’s ready, can feel him against her leg, ready, waiting, desperate but trying to contain it. She fumbles in a bedside draw for a loose condom, the heat of her body pressed over his as she leans over him making him shudder. He distracts her by dropping kisses across her breasts, so her fingers shake as she tears the package open.

  When they’re ready, he collects her again, under him this time, the weight of his body intoxicating, a reminder of everything she’s missed, of everything she can have again. He settles home deep inside her. It’s been a little while, and she touches his face, tucks hair behind his ear while they wait for her to adjust. Tom shakes with the restraint. Sweat shines on his strong chest. Her body opens for him, languid, pliant, welcoming him back.

  They find a rhythm, a dance they never forgot. Tom’s arms bracket her, the heels of his hands pressing hard into the mattress. One of her legs lies loose around his waist, holding him close. He licks up her neck, breathes into her skin. She shivers, and is set aflame, burning up for him, ignited by all he gives to her.

  “Tom,” she says, a chant for the revered, “Tom.”

He groans from deep in his chest, dropping his head so the tips of his hair brushes over her chest, bowing to her. She palms his shoulder, writhes under him.

 “Oh, Tom,” she gasps, and shatters. She sees nothing but the brown of his eyes, the red of his mouth, feels the slickness of their skin, hears his moans and calls of her name as he follows her lead, his face crammed into her neck, his body so close to hers she doesn’t know where they separate.

It’s very late. The city sleeps around them. The linen has been disturbed by their activities, but they rest under a sheet, limbs tangled. Hair is lovingly brushed off faces, lips are kissed. The apartment is filled again.


End file.
